by John M. Ford
"You got a trauma team in your pocket?" Doc said. "How about an intensive care unit?"
"We can get them."
Tie off. Bleeders every damn where. "Do it quick," Doc said, and then realized what he was laying. More pain, more cruelty, wasn't going to help anything. What they needed was—then it clicked. "Katie!"
The woman stopped on her way down the hall, gun and knife out. McCain turned as well.
Doc said, "You told me your father was a bloodstopper. That he showed you."
"Yeah, but I never. . ."
"You gotta try."
Mr. Patrise said, "Come here, Katherine. Lincoln, do not go on alone. Get Rudy. Or the two detectives, if they're not busy. " McCain nodded. Patrise said to Doc, quietly, "What is a bloodstopper?"
"Folklore," Doc said, breathing hard. He tried to explain, as he kept up the pressure on Cloudhunter's wounds.
Katie set her gun down, bent over Cloud. "I just don't know."
Mr. Patrise said, "I believe you can, Katherine."
She closed her eyes, tensed. "Seisote vert" she said, "Seisote verir
Cloudhunter heaved, gave a sigh that pulled tears into Doc's eyes. The hemorrhaging stopped as if a valve had been turned. Doc sponged again, groped in his bag for the IV set, knowing it was still hopeless.
No. Not hopeless. Not hopeless. If they can crawl to Elfland —"I can't do anything more here. If I can get him up to Division, maybe—"
Stagger said, "They'll never let you through."
Patrise said, "Try."
Stagger and Katie helped load Cloud into the Triumph. He made no sound. Doc unstoppered a vial of fairy dust, scattered it on the wounds, touched it to Cloud's lips. Cloud breathed it in. His face grew luminous, relaxed a bit. Doc pulled out of the alley and turned north. Away toward the lake, there was a hint of false dawn.
Pedal to the floor, Doc drove toward Division. He ran out of gears and kept pushing: he could always mend the engine, or Jesse could, or there would be other engines, other cars. He drove until the buildings to either side squeezed up and bent over before him, until the light turned purple ahead and red behind and the clocks ticked slow, and still Division stayed ahead. He thought he was seeing the same windows and doors and traffic lights pass again and again, like a chase in a cartoon; and then suddenly the road was broad and black and glossy, like the marble floor of his bathroom
back halfway to the World. Ahead there was a vast Gothic gateway flanked by stone griffins. Elves stood all around it. Through the gateway was—nothing. Xot darkness, not any kind of door or wall. just a dully luminous grayness, the color of a fainting spell.
Doc pointed the car at it. She hummed, skidded just a little; Doc doubled her down, gripped the wheel and Cloudhunter's wrist—
And stopped, without sound, effort, or inertia; the car was simply standing still, engine idling cool, five yards in front of the gateway.
Cloudhunter breathed in audibly. That was all. His eyes were open but seemed to see nothing. Or maybe silver eyes could see through the blind spot.
Doc blasted the horn of the Triumph at the gates of Elfland.
Most of the elves seemed to be ignoring them. A few were looking on and the fuckers were smirking.
Doc opened his door, yelled at the nearest elf. "Let me through, dammit! I've got one of your people here, and he's dyingV"
"The mortal knows he may not pass," one of the elves said, "or else the mortal is a fool." The timbre was metallic; it scraped Doc's nerves. This is how they talk, he thought, when they're not talking to us.
"Then take him through! He's not stable here—dying, do you understand that?" Do you fucking know what that is? he thought.
"Gwaed gwir takes this risk beyond homelands," the inhuman voice said. "It is a risk honorably borne, honorably lost."
Another elf voice, a little milder than the first, said, "If the Trueblood wishes to pass through, then aye he may."
More of the Ellyllon turned to look. None of them moved a step closer.
Doc got out, opened Cloud's door. He couldn't get a pulse, but there was a faint trembling of the colorless lips. Doc pulled at his arm; Cloud fell on him, knocking him on his butt. Doc braced his feet against the car and pulled. He felt bone grate, and his heart flipped, but what was a little more damage now. a piss in the ocean: five yards awav was the deep water of healing, if only thev could crawl the distance.
He tried to lift Cloudhunter. Fresh blood welled up in the elPs
chest, and he groaned aloud. The sound cut like a torch into Doc's brain, and his knees gave way; for a moment he was insensible, blind with tears.
Through water he saw one of the elves, watching them, hands pressed to his (or her or its) ears. Was it shock? Was it anything?
"Help me," Doc said, from his knees. "Please."
Nothing.
"Piss on you all," he said.
He tugged the Nancy scarf from his neck, got it under Cloud's arms and began to drag him. A dozen feet to go. Ten. Eight. He didn't know what would happen when he hit the barrier: would he just slam into it, bounce off, burn up, die? He would have to get behind, push—
A clear, sweet elven voice said, "How earnestly he doth shift the thankless burden. A thing almost noble 'tis, to bear a stone unfreighted of itself."
"You're lying," Doc said out loud, "You're lying, you want me to give up," but he looked into Cloudhunter's face and knew it was so; meat, that was all, elf meat.
He heaved one awful sob, and then stopped, because enough rage makes anything possible. He stumbled back to the car. Behind him, the elves began to move toward the body.
Doc brought up Cloud's sawed-off shotgun. "Get AWAY from him!" The elves stopped. He didn't know if the gun would fire, here, just on Division; he was ready and willing to find out. The Truebloods all drew back.
He got out the kit, carried it and the gun to Cloud's side. This was going to take a while. He hoped the elves hung around to watch. He hoped some of them got sick all over themselves.
An hour later, Doc threw what was his into the TR3's backseat, got in and slammed the door. The last thing he said to them, as he threw the car in gear, was "Okay, I'm a fool. And you know what you are."
Uoc took the elevator up to Patrise's office. His hands were stuffed into the pockets of his coat, which had long thin streaks of Cloud-
hunter's blood across it. He was stained with dirt and snow. His fingers tightened and relaxed, bunching the cloth.
He knocked and entered. Patrise was standing in front of his desk, looking at a poster on the wall. It was a network of colored lines, the rapid-transit system of the city long before there was World and Shade.
"Hallow," Patrise said.
"I lost Cloud."
Patrise nodded once, slowly. He turned to face Doc, held out a hand, palm up.
Doc took a folded, bloody gauze pad from his pocket. Inside were the pellets and slugs he had dug from Cloudhunter's body, as he had taken so much lead from so many dead Ellyllon before this.
He had thought he would throw it on Patrise's desk, as . . . what? A statement? A demand? For what? Instead he just put it gently in the outstretched hand. Mr. Patrise's fingers closed on it, tightly.
"Was Cloudhunter taken through the gateway?" Patrise said.
"Yeah. After it didn't matter."
"It matters a great deal, Hallow."
"To who? Them?"
"Yes. This is a matter of what they believe, not what we want. I told you about that, about iron and faith. There is more to come of this, you may trust. Now, I believe Ginevra is waiting in your rooms." He turned, took a step toward the inner apartments.
Doc said, "About the bullets—"
"Another time, Hallow. I am selfish with my grief, and will not share it."
Doc lowered his head, turned toward the door. He stopped. "Did you get Whisper?"
Mr. Patrise paused. "No. As I say, there is more to come of this."
Doc went down to his apartment. Ginny was in the living roo
m, asleep in a chair. She still wore her red satin dress; her shoes and stockings were placed neatly on the floor, her feet tucked up beneath her as she always sat. A book was open in her lap.
She had uncurled her hair, and it spilled down one cheek. He
reached to touch it, then realized what he looked like, bloody and ragged, a nightmare for her to wake to. Moving as softly as he could, he hid the coat in the closet, went into the bathroom to strip and shower.
When he came out, wrapped in a bathrobe, Ginny was sitting on his bed, leaning against one of the bedposts. "Hi," she said.
"Hi."
"Boris let me in. You don't mind?"
"No, I don't mind."
"I like your place." She giggled. "It's big."
"I should have brought you here before."
She rubbed one foot against the other. "My legs went to sleep out there." She tilted her head. "Think I need treatment?"
He stepped behind her, found the zipper on her dress. She raised her hands to let him take it off. He touched the velvet band, close around her neck, and she purred.
"My God, it's dawn," she said, looking at the windows. "You were gone a long time."
"Yeah," he said, and then his throat closed up. He reached into his piled clothes, took out the blue Nancy scarf, wound it between his hands.
"That's Cloudhunter's," Ginny said. "He gave it to—" She pulled in a breath. "Oh, God, Doc, not Cloudhunter."
"We all fought it. Katie and—that's what I'm supposed to do." He was crying. It didn't matter. The toughest guys on the fire squad cried for this. You got handed somebody's life, and you held on to it with everything you had, and sometimes it still got away from you. If you didn't feel something then—"I'm not very good company right now. If you want to go . . ." he said, and let it trail off, not at all sure what answer he wanted.
"Where would I go?" she said plainly. "I love you. I've known it for. . . well, I know, okay? I've been scared to say it, because I didn't know what you'd do." She shuffled a foot. "Do you still want me to go?"
"I didn't. I just—"
"Then come here," she said, and held out her hands. He looked at her wrists, and the silk taut between his white-knuckled hands, and thought that it was good he was already crying. He
unwound the scarf, folded it, put it carefully aside.
He needed to hold her so badly it hurt. And he needed to be in control. But if he said what was coiling up in his mind, and she pulled away—there weren't words for how bad that would be. There weren't even thoughts for it. And you fought the bad thing, right? Until you had nothing left to fight with. Like with any other life you were given.
So he just sat down heavily on the bed, and let her hold him, until the room blurred and faded into sleep.
When he woke, there was a note on the bedroom mirror: "I didn't want to wake you. If you want, I won't wake you New Year's Day either."
meeting a Highborn. The one that concerns you most is this: don't speak unless I tell you that you may. Do not answer even if you are addressed directly. I'm sure that sounds arrogant, and I assure you it is."
"Is there anything else I shouldn't do?"
"Countless things," Mr. Patrise said dryly. "I would advise you not to look into the Urthas's eyes. You may find that difficult, and there isn't likely to be any real danger, but... If in doubt, look at the floor somewhere in front of our host."
They parked at a colonnaded building right on the lakefront, near the natural history museum.
"Are you fond of the Field, Hallow?" Mr. Patrise said.
Doc realized he had been staring at the museum. "I only went there once. With Cloud."
"Yes. I should have remembered that. This way, Hallow. Please."
Carved letters above the building entrance read JOHN G. SHEDD AQUARIUM. A pair of Ellyllon in green armor flanked the door.
"Do they own this place now?" Doc said quietly.
"The Aquarium is closed for New Year's Day. The Highborn has been courteously extended its use." Mr. Patrise pointed to the right of the aquarium building: a narrow finger of land extended out into the lake. A street down its centerline ended in yellow-striped barricades. "The breakwater was twice as long before the Shadow fell, and the Planetarium was on the end of it. Apparently our stargazing offended someone." He paused, looked into the distance. "The dome was bronze, on a marble base. It sank like a little Atlantis. The fire paused then—nobody remembers just how long; it might have been as long as five minutes. Then, suddenly, there were Ellyllon at the Art Institute, helping to save its contents. Draw what conclusions you choose.
"Now, we have an appointment. Remember your instructions."
One of the armored elves opened the doors for them. They entered a large, high-ceilinged space lined with aquarium tanks; in the center was an enormous cylindrical tank, clear all around. Inside were corals, and darting, brilliantly colored fish. There were halt a dozen Ellyllon in green Standing at attention around the room. They did not move. A weirdly Ugly, flat-faced elf—a Mam, Doe
supposed—appeared from around the coral tank; he wore a metallic green robe that trailed on the floor twice his height behind him. He approached Mr. Patrise, bowed, then bowed again to Doc.
They followed the Mani down stairs and around a curving corridor to a wide, domed space, an open auditorium flanked by green plants, stepping down to an expanse of open water. The Mani bowed again and left them there.
Mr. Patrise stood quite still before the blue pond, looking straight out. Doc did the same.
The water rippled. Small waves broke on the pavement before them, making thin puddles around their shoes. A figure in green and white, blue and silver, rose into view.
The Highborn woman wore a long, floating cloak of deep green stuff, which spread out on the surface of the water for two yards in all directions; it was fantastically puffed at her shoulders and fanned high behind her head. Beneath it was a tight-fitting garment that seemed to be made of fish scales. Her white legs were uncovered, and her very small feet were in silver boots. Her hair, which was elven silver with streaks of green, was circled by silver hoops that trailed blue-green ribbons.
Her face was angular and beautiful—though among Truebloods it seemed only the Mani might not be—and her silver-coin eyes were tilted, shadowed with deep green.
"You are good to answer my request," she said. There was a rushing whisper under the music of her voice. Doc had never been to an ocean, but he had held a seashell to his ear: that was the sound. He started to make some polite reply, then remembered not to.
Mr. Patrise said, "My lady Glassisle, I present to you Doc Hal-lownight, my household's healer."
"Was it then the Healer's oath?" Glassisle said. "It was our understanding that death breaks such vows." She looked directly at Doc, and—carefully—he looked back. When he caught her eyes, the echoing whisper beneath her voice grew louder, and he looked down. "Or was it the patron's charge, which we know well is not broken?"
"My healer and my swordbearer were in company of battle, my lady. Which well we know, also, is unbroken."
As the water calmed around Glassisle, her reflection steadied. Doc saw that it did not match the figure standing on the surface: there was still a woman there, the same size and shape, but the image below the water wore a cloak of green seaweed and a breastplate of scallop shells, and her bare arms and legs were white veined with blue and silver, like marble.
Doc turned his head slightly toward Mr. Patrise. His reflection also showed full-length in the water puddled on the stone floor, though that shouldn't have been possible given the light and the angle. Patrise's image wore a deep blue cloak lined with red, and bronze armor over red cloth, like pictures of Roman soldiers Doc had seen in books.
Doc turned back to Glassisle, and fixed his gaze on her reflection, suddenly very afraid to look down and see his own.
The water moved and the reflection shattered. A long-nosed dolphin broke water by Glassisle's feet. It gave a screech, then a sound li
ke high-pitched chuckling.
"This is a paladin of mine, Healer," Glassisle said. "He has a question for you. A reply would be gracious."
Doc looked at Mr. Patrise, who nodded gravely.
The dolphin swam to the edge of the pond. It spoke: the words were squeaky, but recognizably English. "Greetings, Dockallown-ite."
Doc leaned forward. "Hello." Okay, I've been a dinosaur, ami nam Vm talking to a fish.
"How long," the dolphin said, "do you carry your young?"
"Nine months," Doc said, then, "Three seasons; three-quarters of a year."
The dolphin nodded, chirping. "How do you teach them to breathe?"
Doc thought hard. "Before we . . . emerge, our lun«;s arc rilled with fluid. That must be drained out. Then we . . . touch the child, enough to wake it. If it makes a good, loud sound, we know that it is breathing well."
"And if no . . . loud sound?" The dolphin sounded intensely interested.
"We can push air in. Sometimes we have to do that foi a long time, with a . . ."
"Ma'sshine?" the dolphin said.
"Yes."
"Yes. We arrgga—" The dolphin ducked its head below water, came up making a gargling noise. "Argue over ma'sshines. But some are good. For life."
"Some of them are, yes," Doc said.
"Good thing to learn. Our thanks, Dockallownite."
The dolphin jumped, stood on its tail for a moment, then dove, splashing Doc with water. He stood quite still. Glassisle laughed loudly.
"We are pleased at you, Healer," she said, "and grant you the gift of an Ellyll's life. Use it well. As well we welcome you to visit us ... if you learn to breathe water."
She sank out of sight below the surface; in a moment even the ripples were still.
The Mani led them out of the building, and the doors were shut with a bang. Doc felt a shiver, and told himself it was just that he was soaking wet in the cold moist air and the lake wind. At the car, Jesse had a towel over his arm; he tossed it to Doc, then draped a blanket over Doc's shoulders. They got into the car.
